Braille
by ClareBelle23
Summary: Lindsay Pearce, no specific pairing mentioned. She was lying on the floor, counting stretch marks. Based off, Braille by Regina Specktor.


**This has been stuck in my head all day and driving me up the wall, I'm sorry for picking on Lindsay but, I love her and, I find her easy to write about. The song is Braille by Regina Spektor and here, listen while you read. Please? Also, I have no life, just saying and I'm bothering Amber horribly but I hope she loves me desperately! Some feedback would be lovely beautiful people! **

Lindsay closed her eyes carefully, trying to keep her breathing even. She pursed her lips and tried to control the sobs, the tears which threatened to spill over at any moment. Her black hair rippled against the carpet and she couldn't help but mournfully recall when it had been lush and almost silk. She ran her hands along the well-worn stretch-marks on her stomach, absently counting them. It was something she had done religiously for the past few years, counting them and adding another to the total, every time it appeared. Her skin use to be perfect and smooth, a credit to her youth.

She sighed and opened her eyes, studying the bumpy ceiling and feeling her heart plunge. There was that familiar musty smell that came along with the old house, but by now Lindsay merely thought of it as comforting. No longer did she hate it and wish for it to be gone; over the years and misery it had remained a constant. She silently thanked God for that- for some consistency in her life.

Her stomach grumbled slightly, breaking the almost suffocating silence. Lindsay wasn't really used to the silence, after so many years of having another person living with her, another person to talk to. She rubbed absently, pulling her fingers away from the stretch marks, which reminded her of the miserable state she had been in. She thought of the stacks of soup in the cupboards, how that would quell her hunger like it always did but the thought made her sick to the stomach.

For years, that's basically all she had consumed. Soup. With a slight amount of resentment, Lindsay thought of the other things she had to go without. Proper Band-Aids, some cleaning products and what others deemed 'necessities'. Lindsay however, deemed them as luxuries and refused to waste them. Sometimes, she felt like the smell of turpentine followed her around perpetually. The smell use to give her a headache, but now she always welcomed it like an old friend.

She heaved herself off the floor, trying to dismiss her aching muscles. She shuffled over to the window, drawing her cardigan around her frame. Staring outside at the black night only made her more reflective and pensive to the events, which shaped the greater part of her life. The rain pattered down heavily against the thin windows, only reminding Lindsay about her lack of financial aid.

Lack of finances in general.

The thunder lit up the sky spectacularly, shaking the whole house and the single occupant to their cores. Lindsay clenched her teeth and tried to see past the heavy downpour, trying to spot some form of life. A beacon, just for her, but there was no sign of life or a beacon. The rain continued to fall with determination, wetting her world to the bone and chilling her soul.

Lindsay shivered once, knowing all too well how cold the house could get at times like this or worse in winter. She would have to clothe herself thoroughly and usually, he would sneak into bed with her. Actually, he had only gotten his own bed when he was seven. Lindsay had finally scraped enough money together in order to by him a bed, second hand of course but he had still been thrilled.

She smiled thinking of her boy, who had grown into a man now. A man who brought pride into her tired eyes and chased away some of the shadows. Gave her back some respect and gave her a reason to walk tall, after all someone needed to teach him how to ignore what others said about him and his mum. Mainly about his mum and also about his dad- his dad who hadn't had the decency to stick around.

But, really why should he? He barely knew Lindsay, barely knew what he was doing. Hell, she didn't really have a clue but she knew well enough three months later. She knew _everything _nine months later, when a baby boy was cradled in her weak arms. Her hands fell to her sides once more, pulling up the worn material and tracing her stretch marks idly. She knew them too well and she knew they'd be with her forever.

The rain pattered out into a light downpour, giving Lindsay enough light to study the moon. It shone so brightly and boldly, that she couldn't help but stare up at it in awe. How could something remain so perfect? When humans had even touched it and they could ruin it for everyone, they could so easily do it. Like she had been ruined, ruined by one man and herself.

She rubbed her hand along her stomach, remembering the cloud of disappointment Elvis had been born under. How much shame had filled her body and her life, along with the perfect new life growing inside her, changing her completely. She sighed and breathed out heavily, turning her back to the cold window. She leant back against it, not even flinching as the cold contacted with her skin.

She missed hearing Elvis' offbeat singing from another room, which carried throughout the house. She missed when he would sit down at the kitchen table and look up from his cold soup. How he would stare at her with innocent eyes and blink before asking, "Mummy, why can't I sing like Elvis?"

She would laugh and kiss his forehead and tell him he was blessed with other gifts. Gifts that would wow and bring the world to a standstill, everyone would think he was just as good as Elvis, for other things. She studied the flickering candles, getting drawn into their enchanting glow; just like she did when she watched him sleep soundly. She was glad he looked like her; it would hurt too much if he looked like his father.

He was like him, she supposed, but she never really knew him; for everything that had happened. That was hard enough, when Elvis grew older and asked about his father all she could tell him was that his father wasn't around too much. She would have to turn away though, to hide her shame from her son and blink away her unfortunate tears.

Eventually, he grew too old for her to protect him from the truth. He stopped asking and instead hugged her, holding his mother together and protecting her from her own past. A past she sometimes craved to erase,but that would mean she'd have to give up Elvis. No matter her past, she couldn't give up her son. He made up for her imperfections and the stretch marks, made them seem less prominent.

She sunk down onto her bed, eyes still trained on the flickering flames. When Elvis had been born, they relied heavily on candles to keep the house lit. Lindsay couldn't get a job and therefore, had no funds to pay for a heater. Candles were something that could be spotted throughout the house, but only if you looked hard enough. They went through candles like they were going out of fashion.

"Why can't I begin again?" Lindsay breathed into the cold, her breath forming in front of her face.

Her heart broke at the words, but she no longer had Elvis to remind her of the positives in her life. To bring her hope and craft dreams out of her terrible sadness, to show her that things could improve over time. She pulled up her shirt, studying the stretch marks. She never did this, actually Lindsay tried desperately to avoid this but she looked. For ages, she stared at each definite mark. Each pale purple indent, which clearly told her life story.

If you traced your finger over them, it would be like reading Braille.

Her body told everything, like Braille carved into her skin.


End file.
